


dissolving like the setting sun

by teavious



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Other, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 07:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13141494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teavious/pseuds/teavious
Summary: They’ve been trying to decorate their apartment for what feels like too long for him, trying to find the perfect balance between Marius’ need for perfection and Cosette’s need for kitsch. The only thing that Courfeyrac requested, between mouthfuls of Jehan’s first batch of biscuits was fairy lights. It’s only fair to throw a fit over it now, right?OR: Les Amis have a Christmas party. Like all their parties, it's a bit disastruous, they make it too obvious they're just idiots in love, but at least they have food. Modern AU.





	dissolving like the setting sun

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was commissioned by my friend [@rthemis](http://rthemis.tumblr.com/), thank you very much for giving me a reason to write my fave nerds being huge nerds!  
> Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays, everyone! Wishing you a good one!

Enjolras tests the quality of the sweater between his fingers, frowning at the two Christmas colours on display next to each other. He supposes if Courfeyrac would be here, a commentary about the universe somehow wanting to bring him and his boyfriend closer together sooner would be made, but as thing are right now, he has to bear Bahorel’s knowing glances, and his pointing at various hideous things.

“You should get it,” Feuilly smiles from his right, leaning to look closer at the piece of clothing that Enjolras started calling _Grantaire’s present_ in his head. His friend needs no clarification, and Enjolras himself doesn’t feel enthusiastic enough to defend the way he makes puppy eyes at everything remotely green, remotely indecent.

Once the decision is made, it’s easier to enjoy the faces Feuilly makes every time Bahorel holds up another eye-hurting colourful shirt: lovesick, but equally terrified. The two end up settling for a rainbow striped shirt, Feuilly’s size so that he can stop wearing Bahorel’s identical one, and instead be together a matching pair of loving idiots. Enjolras applauds the easiness with which Feuilly makes his boyfriend bend to his suggestions, the immense trust Bahorel puts in the one he cares about the most.

Something in his chest tightens, and he goes on ahead, turns his head away from the image of Bahorel pressing his lips to Feuilly’s cheek, however sweet he would have found it at other times. He wishes he would have Grantaire’s awed and hooting laugh ringing in his ears, his hand between his fingers: then it would feel natural, the sight of other two in love wouldn’t feel so offending.

He sighs into his scarf, accepts Bahorel’s weight over him when he comes full force into a half-hug, and laughs at Feuilly impulse buying a new pair of socks, simply because the dogs printed on them reminds him of his own; bitterness be damned.

 

* * *

 

Bahorel tries to ignore the warm mouth set on licking his fingers, to stifle the laughter about to erupt – and he turns on his other side in bed, shifts closer to Feuilly’s sleeping body in hope that he can trick the dog into joining them in bed, rather than demanding a walk in the park at 5am on Christmas Eve. Frodo refuses to give up, and Bahorel swears as he starts tugging at the blankets. He scoops closer to Feuilly, arm over his waist, freezing legs against his much warmer ones. Feuilly murmurs at the contact, but that’s the only reaction, as he settles into the new position, having to share the one blanket left on the bed with a too big of a guy.

The dog paces around the room for a bit, whimpers at the head of the bed in hope of waking his owners – and seeing no reaction, he barks for good, his pacing exchanged for actual running. Bahorel sighs, rolls around in the bed, and speaks towards the ceiling:

“He’s your dog.”

Feuilly, eyes still closed, voice half muffled in the pillow, is making attempts at taking the blanket back:

“And you’re my fiancé. He’s your dog now, too.”

Bahorel rises, spends good seconds stretching, and although he already feels the cold biting at his toes, the hope that Feuilly might be staring at his ass is stronger. He whistles, Frodo coming running at his command, and before turning towards the wardrobe to get changed, he makes sure Feuilly is warm under at least two blankets.

Next time Feuilly is aware of his surrounding, Bahorel sits on the edge of the bed, dressed already, with his ridiculous winter hat on. He can faintly sense his fingers playing through his hair, and it makes concentrating on what he’s saying even harder:

“Would you like anything, my love?” He nods _no_ into his pillows, tries to blow a kiss to Bahorel’s retreating frame, though he isn’t quite sure if he managed to.

By the time his boyfriend is back, the coffee machine is running in the background, as he hums along to Christmas carols in various foreign languages. He goes to greet the return of his two roommates, and the sight he’s welcomed with is a surprise: Bahorel, snowed in, holding a bouquet of half-freezing flowers for Feuilly’s taking, blush rising to his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t have Christmas without Christmas lights. That’s why they’re called _Christmas lights_ ”, Courfeyrac repeat, slower this time, like he has to dig his idea into Marius’ head through the tone of his voice as well, besides the desperate arm gestures and invincible argument.

“The cat won’t like it,” Marius says, pointing towards the two glowing eyes from under the couch, the creature’s favourite (and only, from what Courfeyrac has seen while home) spot since Marius brought it home, scratched all over.

“The cat won’t care,” Courfeyrac shots back, this time turning towards Combeferre and Cosette for help in the matter, the two who up till this point decided to play the role of Switzerland in the debate. Courfeyrac really hates Switzerland.

They’ve been trying to decorate their apartment for what feels like too long for him, trying to find the perfect balance between Marius’ need for perfection and Cosette’s need for kitsch. The only thing that Courfeyrac requested, between mouthfuls of Jehan’s first batch of biscuits was fairy lights. It’s only fair to throw a fit over it now, right?

“We can ask everyone when they get here?” Ferre suggests, barely raising his head from his laptop, where he tries to put together a playlist to properly illustrate this mess of a year in their group. He tries to keep the love songs to a minimum, though it’s getting harder the more they go through the night and Courf loses an article of clothing with each passing hour.

“Fine,” he pouts, before dramatically falling into an armchair, trying to hide his growing smile that comes with Marius’ sigh of relief from the other end of the room, the husky meowing of that damn cat. Combeferre decides he can leave aside the more detailed parts of this party – after all, Eponine is sure to destroy every attempt at keeping it normal sounding – and he leaves his spot for shoving his body next to his boyfriend on a too small armchair for both of them. Courfeyrac’s grin is now humongous, and Ferre drags him into a kiss, if only not to let him think he won this time around.

 

* * *

 

Jehan knocks at the door, and shoves his face further into his scarf, trying to ignore the way in which the damn hallway of this building seems colder than the weather outside. There are a few seconds, during which he thinks he won’t receive any answer, then there’s a crash from the other side of the door, a shout – and out comes his girlfriend, frowning through her bangs, as she tries to put on a jacket that’s too huge on her frame, but that has all his favourite patches on.

He doesn’t say anything at first; he knows she’s better left alone for a while, so he simply follows her, humming a tune he can’t quite place. Then:

“I made cookies for the party.”

“Cosette wants to braid your hair.”

“Grantaire is certainly going to wear more decorations than the tree.”

“Enjolras will wear something… red.”

“You’ll probably going to drunkenly arm-wrestle Bahorel and win.”

The last two statements do it. Eponine erupts into laughter: loud and ugly, but Jehan’s face lights up like he just received the best present, and he catches up with her so he can hold her hand. Neither of them wears gloves, and the warmth is welcomed and comforting. Eponine sighs and stops to rest her head on Jehan’s shoulder, half hug, half awkwardly hiding her face.

“Hey,” he tries, squeezing her hand, sloppily kissing the top of her head. “You know you can stay the night? Well, _nights_ , really. And even half of your friends will take you in without complaining, while the other half complains only because that’s who they are as a person.”

Eponine snorts, raises her head, leans to kiss Jehan. When they part, she’s smiling, though it lasts only for a moment, immediately exchanged for her usual frowning face. Jehan hums even louder, pleased now.

“I’m going to eat all your cookies,” Eponine says, before playfully shoving him and starting to run in the direction of Courfeyrac and Marius’ apartment. He counts to two before going after her.

 

* * *

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the way you do this,” Joly whispers, leaning his head onto Musichetta’s shoulder, reading the instructions in Bossuet’s neatly-kept recipes notebook.

“Well, I don’t know the correct way to do this!” Musichetta complains, passing a flour-covered hand through her hair. Joly tries to pat it away, pulling curls and blowing so close to her ear that he ends up making her giggle. Their meat pie is still in the very incipient state of creation, with the party ready to start in short of a couple of hours, but Musichetta isn’t sure she cares, taking in consideration she spent more time in Joly’s kitchen this day than she did the past few months since university started again. Plus, her boyfriend is especially cute when pouting, and even cuter is his after kissing face.

So it can be said that Bossuet’s attempt at teaching her basic cooking skills ended up with her trying to steal as many kisses from Joly as possible. It doesn’t help that her other boyfriend isn’t present to balance out things, or make them end faster.

“Musi?” She’s cut out by Joly’s voice, and she has to remind herself that she’s still very much dressed. “Don’t you want to get ready? We should be leaving soon.”

Yep. Right. “Yep. Right.” She adds out loud, lamely. She can _feel_ Joly’s amused smirk, and if she ends up swatting at his chest with her dirty hand, just to leave a stain, at least he gets to know it too. She tries to tidy up, leave no proof of her failed experiment, and Joly is quick to help her out. There’s the faintest of music heard from the neighbours downstairs, and they finish cleaning in time with the dying words of _Santa Baby._

And yet, Musichetta still hovers, eyes moving from the watch to Joly and back. He sighs under her stare, bids her closer with a hand movement. She’s already beaming by the time he snakes his arms around her waist, to give her one small, soft kiss.

“Happy?” he asks. She shakes her head no, tries to put on her most innocent face, slightly pucker her lips. He almost gives in to kissing her again, when the entrance door slams to the wall, making them jump apart. Joly’s the first to regain his composure, goes to welcome Bossuet, helps him in shaking off all the snow piled on top of his head.

“Bossuet!” Musi pouts, half because he interrupted her wooing attempts, half because it took him so long to come back in the first place. She joins the two in the hallway, dragging them into a group hug.

“Someone’s excited,” Bossuet laughs, but refusing to let go of his two lovers, squeezing them closer to his chest. It makes for quite a funny image, considering that both of them are so short, by comparison, and he’s glad that when not studying, Joly doesn’t wear his glasses, because knowing his luck, he would have accidentally smashed them through loving too much.

“And dirty,” he adds, sighing, once he takes a good look at his two lovers. He throws his coat and scarf on the hanger, shoos Musi and Joly towards the bathroom, for a thorough wash. Musichetta pauses for a second, turns to wink at him.

“Care to join us?”

He blows a kiss in her direction, but remains in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, to prepare the food casseroles for the party.

“Be good, babe.” He warns, smiling in a way that promises her better things if she does as told.

She nods slowly, catches up with Joly to ask for his help in combing away foreign stuff out of her hair. She manages to keep her hands mainly to herself, shampoos Joly’s hair while he helps wash her back. In the kitchen, Bossuet drops things only once or twice, and by the time they’re all in crisp shirts and nice dress, things have fallen into place. Bossuet and Musichetta make sure Joly is properly wrapped in several layers of clothes, wearing the one very ugly and very large sweater they bought him, and they leave, holding hands with him in the middle.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras doesn’t want to be here. Well, it’s not that he has any complaints about the place, the food, the music and least of all the company, but the feeling still persists, and it makes the whole place incredibly… incomplete. With the cat sleeping in his lap and a glass of red wine in his hand, he tries to comfort himself. He doesn’t think much of Courfeyrac’s shameless grins, or Cosette’s sudden leaves to answer and give phone calls. Combeferre’s place at his side is natural, and Bahorel hovering close became usual enough. He thinks Marius’ attempts to stuff his face with Jehan’s cookies are just host’s friendliness, and not even Eponine playing his favourite band doesn’t seem that much out of place. It is Christmas after all.

It starts getting suspicious the moment there’s no background chatter, no music. Courfeyrac runs towards the door before the doorbell sound even materializes, and Enjolras is a bit surprised to see Valjean on the other side – because, after all, the party is one of _their parties_ , and it’s bound to end in disaster. Musichetta has already taken over the mistletoe, sharing kisses with everyone who makes eye contact with her (he’s been desperately avoiding that, all while Bossuet seemed but happy to comply to never watch anything else but her) and Eponine is probably on her 4th drink and still keeping perfect straight posture.

Then, Valjean moves a bit to the left, and Enjolras spots the dark curls, the sight of too green of a jacket. He’s up on his feet the next moment, Grantaire shoving his way through his welcoming committee so that he can welcome his boyfriend’s hug. No one else but Enjolras can feel the wet tears on his shoulder, and he stays there, patting his back, tightening his hold, for as long as Grantaire needs him to. They’re weary to disentangle from the embrace, but their eyes meet, and a new fascination is born, as they rediscover all the interior changes they’ve spent nights on skype talking about. Then, finally, Grantaire goes on his tiptoes, Enjolras leans his head down a bit: and they kiss. From somewhere, he can hear Bahorel hoot and Courfeyrac whistle.

“I’m home,” Grantaire says, his voice still raw, still chocked, his nose violently red from both the cold and the silent crying.

“Welcome home,” Enjolras whispers, helping him get out of his winter get-up, making unnecessary but very much needed contact along the way. The others keep their distance, friendly greetings and shoulder touches, but Grantaire still remains, basically, all his. It’s wildly fascinating to see all the familiar motions happen again in front of his eyes, after his boyfriend has been away for months at university. Any small trace of awkwardness is broken the moment Grantaire takes him by the hand, occupying the couch, half sitting in Enjolras’ lap, their legs tangled.

The others give them an hour: then, one by one, they form a circle around them, demanding stories told as just Grantaire knows how to tell them. Eponine is first, offering him a bottle of beer and pulling at his hair a bit too hard, maybe to make him taste how much she missed him. Bahorel screams his name from across the room, closes in so they can do a very complex but dorky hand shake. Courfeyrac joins in just to laugh at that. Joly’s warm eyes and kind offering of food make him break out in actual tears of gratitude: and then everyone takes their turn, hugging their small, finally home disaster of a man.

 

* * *

 

Marius almost falls asleep at the table, trying to pick the empty glasses to leave them in the sink for the morning. Cosette silently makes her way through the rooms, carrying so many blankets that the pink top of her head is barely visible, trying to make sure everyone is comfortable and warm, and will remain so throughout the night. Courfeyrac waves at them from the doorframe of his bedroom, and they nod in acknowledgement, keeping it down for the sake of the people asleep on the floor and on the couch in the kitchen.

Cosette, careful not to step on Bossuet’s hand, makes her way towards Marius. She gently shoves his shoulder with her hip, and when he almost falls over, she hurries to catch him. He snorts a bit, his sight lost in her hair, his senses in her perfume. He lets a hand touch her cheek, his voice softening beyond recognition when calling her by the nickname he picked for her ever since they started dating:

“Brilliance.”

Cosette huffs, nudges him to get up. “Worm, let’s get you to bed.”

“Will you sleep with me?”

She laughs, allows him a few moments to figure out why that phrasing was so wrong, given the context, and allows herself the enjoyment that comes with having made him blush, obvious even in the dark. She has learnt not to take his missteps too seriously, has learnt to figure out when he actually desires the physical contact. It helps that, when extremely tired, he seems to mind it less than usual.

The room is empty, their friends opting for the closer options as a sleeping place, and they both collapse on the bed with a grateful, tired sigh. She curls closer to his chest, his hand caressing her cheek.

“So? How was the first party you organized?” she asks, feeling herself growing sleepier by the second.

“This is the best part,” he answers, already half-asleep, and Cosette laughs; gets closer only to plant a kiss on his nose.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy what I'm doing, consider donating to my [ko-fi page](https://ko-fi.com/teavious)! If you enjoy _how_ I'm doing it, leave a request with your donation, and I will write it for you! Thanks for reading, let's talk on [tumblr](http://teavious.tumblr.com/) or [twitter.](https://twitter.com/_teavious/)


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